Readiness
by Harkpad
Summary: Phil goes missing on a mission and Clint's going to go get him back. Fury has a new tac suit from R&D he's going to let Clint use, but Clint needs a little help putting it on. That's what friends are for. (Fury Fluff) Background (oh, SO background) Clint/Coulson. Very background. This is a friendship fic. Light angst.


**A/N:** This was written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. They wanted someone close to Clint helping him dress for a mission. This is pure Fury Friendship Fluff. Thanks to desert_neon for beta help.

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Clint's got a bag full of new, specialized tactical gear that was delivered to his room a few minutes ago. It came just as he was drying his hair off with a towel after he'd done the pre-mission shower, complete with the field-standard unscented shampoo and soap (he's not allowed to use the cucumber-melon body wash he happens to love). Now the bag sits just inside his door, respectfully left at the entrance by the R&D team.

Except, it's not a bag, it's a suitcase. A fucking huge, black, shiny suitcase that looks really, really heavy. It's got silver locks and is more like a mini-trunk, really, almost as wide as it is tall.

It's a good thing it's on wheels, he thinks as he tugs his black Under Armor t-shirt on and tucks it into his jeans. The wheels will make lugging it and his bow case up to Phil's office easier. Clint wants to do this in Phil's office, to let the warm light of the brass lamp on Phil's desk soften the task at hand. He wants the familiar smell of the old, treasured books housed in Phil's mahogany bookcase and the feel of the beige wool carpet on his feet as he prepares.

Not that Phil's fucking here, he thinks as he treks up to the office. None of this would fucking be happening if Phil were _here_.

Clint unlocks the door with the passcode Phil encrypted for him months ago and shuts the door firmly behind him. He carts the suitcase in and sets it down in front of the couch, drops his bow on the floor next to it, and takes a deep breath, and clicks it open. The sound seems to echo in the empty room and the box opens like a secret staircase.

He slips his shoes and socks off and then gets distracted for a moment. He stares at the tiers of the case, looking like steps leading into the bottom of it, and wonders if Phil has been dragged down any steps, beaten and drugged, or worse, in the last two days. He catches himself clenching his fists and gritting his teeth way too hard, so he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the exhale blow some of the tension away. He needs to focus.

The click of the door pulls him from his thoughts, and he spins on his heel, drawing the blade he keeps at his waist as the door opens.

Nick Fury is standing there, gripping the handle with a look of triumph in his eyes, like a parent who's caught his kid somewhere they're not supposed to be.

"Jesus, Nick," Clint says with a sigh. "A little warning next time."

"Should I knock?" Nick asks with a smirk as he shuts the door.

"Wasn't expecting anyone," Clint answers. "And you know damn well that if Phil were here you should _definitely_ knock." Nick rolls his eye as Clint looks down at the case and folds his arms across his chest. "I have to get dressed. Wheels up in twenty minutes."

"I know. I thought you could use a hand."

Clint looks over at his boss, his friend, and his _co-conspirator _if you asked Phil on poker nights after a few beers, and watches him take off his long coat, the coat he always wears at the office – junior agents say that he sleeps in it – and sling it across Phil's dark leather couch. "How'd you know I'd be here?" Clint asks.

"Lucky guess," Nick replies as he looks back at Clint and steps around him to the suitcase. He kneels down as Clint watches, and carefully pulls out the black pants that are the first layer of the gear, made from a rip-proof fabric cooked up sometime in the last few months. He holds them up slowly, like they're an honor to hold. "They say even a Bundeswehr can't rip it."

Clint laughs. "I'll bet it'd still hurt like fuck." He leans over and pulls his jeans off, revealing fitted black undershorts. Nick hands him the pants and Clint pulls them on. They're skin-tight, so he wiggles a little to get them adjusted and Nick laughs.

"What are you, five?" Nick says. "They're not built for comfort."

"I know, asshole, but I'm the one has to wear them for at least another day or two, so shut up."

Nick looks up sharply, and hands Clint the shirt made of the same fabric after Clint's peeled his undershirt off. "I would wear them, you know," Nick says, and he meets Clint's eyes with a steely glare.

Clint sighs and pulls on the shirt. "I know." He kneels down to face Nick. "I _know_, Nick, and Phil will understand. You can't be two places at once and he'll understand."

Nick runs his hand over his head and says, "Stupid son of a bitch gets himself captured by HYDRA and I'm stuck negotiating with the WSC at the same time. Couldn't he have waited a goddamned month?"

Clint laughs and pulls out the first piece of the leg protective gear and stands up. "You know how he hates to bother you when you're dealing with them." Phil had once said to Clint, 'The world could end while Nick's in with the WSC and you couldn't pay me to be the one who has to go in there and interrupt him.'

Clint smiles at the memory as he fiddles with the piece of armor that's _supposed_ to strap onto his shin. 'Supposed to' is the key phrase, and Clint mutters "motherfucker" under his breath a few seconds later.

"Here," Nick says, brushing Clint's hands away. "I'm doing this."

Clint flat-out drops the strap. "Why?"

"Because you clearly didn't read the PDF file of the instructions they sent this morning."

"I did! It's supposed to do this twirly thingy," he starts, but Nick bats his hand away again.

"I. Am. Doing. This." And he flicks the strap the other direction and snaps it into place. He looks up at Clint with an obnoxious smirk.

"I would've figured it out," Clint mutters as Nick reaches into the case for the next piece.

"Next week, maybe," Fury says as he straps the next piece on. Clint watches in silence as Nick methodically puts the bullet proof thigh-guard on and double checks both pieces.

Clint watches as Nick does the other leg, and he thinks about night-time strategy sessions with Nick and Phil turning into late night drinks, which eventually became beer and pool on off-nights, and those eventually became dinners with all three of them from time to time, as well as paintball games and various trips to Knicks and Giants games when they could manage.

Last Christmas Natasha gave Fury a Cat In the Hat-style hat and gave Phil and Clint Thing One and Thing Two t-shirts. (Clint and Phil wear them to sleep in sometimes.)

When the leg pieces are attached, Nick looks up at Clint and cocks his head. "This whole suit is supposed to block knives and bullets and still be flexible."

"I love being the guinea pig, boss."

He actually does, usually, but this time, with Phil's life on the line, Clint wishes for some familiarity.

"You've still got your old stand-by," Nick says, glancing over at Clint's bow case.

Clint just nods. The bow can't be upstaged by some fancy new tac suit, that's for sure.

Nick pulls out a slender rectangular black case, about ten inches long, and he stands up and straps it across Clint's lower back and secures it tightly. "New field toxicology kit," he says, matter-of-fact, like he's giving Clint some Band-Aids. "There's morphine in there, too. Read the damned instruction book on your flight."

"Lotta new stuff, Nick," Clint says, "I'm not certified." There's only one reason Nick is letting Clint out in the field with brand-new equipment he's not trained on, and that reason's name is Phil.

Nick looks up at him and nods, "You're a smart guy." He pauses. "Tac gear PDF notwithstanding."

"Fuck off."

Nick just takes a deep breath and pulls out the chest piece. He keeps his eyes on the piece as he straps it in place, and there's a long stretch of silence as he pulls the back piece out and attaches that as well. All of Clint's major organs are shielded by the equipment, and he likes the feel of it. There's plenty of movement, and movement's always good in the field.

Nick reaches out and lifts Clint's chin up carefully, his fingers rough against Clint's skin, and he meets Clint's eyes as he holds up the neck guard.

Clint tips his chin up a little more.

Nick reaches out to put it on and says, "You're going to bring him home. You're going to listen to Jasper and you're going to be creative and ruthless and bring him home." His voice is soft but clear, like an incoming missile a long way off.

"Yes, sir," Clint says, and they both know it's a promise made in two simple words.

Nick nods and steps around behind Clint to finish attaching the neck guard. "But you're going to let Jasper guide you," he says after a breath. "You're going to let him watch out for you as best he can. You understand?" He suddenly sounds fierce, like a dog growling low.

"Coulson and I are on-mission every week, Nick. It'll be okay." Clint thinks that the last time Nick was this worried about him on a mission was the one after Clint and Phil announced their relationship. He got over showing it real quick – they all did – but the worry never _really_ left. Friends don't stop worrying.

Nick lays his hands on Clint's shoulders and says, "Together. You guys are unstoppable together. This is just you and it's you dealing with Phil in whatever shape you find him. You might be on your own all the way out, too, you know."

Clint does know. He's ready to carry Phil on his back for as many miles as it takes to get him to safety if he has to. "I'm okay with that. You know I can do it."

Nick stays silent and Clint feels him finish attaching the piece with a brush of his fingers on Clint's neck, and they're warm, safe. Nick steps around to Clint's side and leans into his shoulder.

"I know you _can_. I know you _will_. But, I need you in one piece just as much as I need him in one piece." He pauses and gives Clint a shove. "You're a package deal, you two idiots. I can't have one without the other anymore. So go get him and come back safe."

The feeling in those words is almost palpable, like there's a heat and light physically connecting the two men. Clint steps back to look at Nick and he can still feel it, and he's grateful. "Nick. I'll get him."

He wishes he could say that he'll come back safe like Nick wants, but that's a guarantee he's unwilling to make.

He picks up his bow case from the couch and opens the door to Phil's office. He gives Nick a small salute as he leaves, and Nick returns it with a grin.

"See you when you get back, Thing Two," Nick calls, and Clint laughs, letting it fill his chest, hoping it will buoy him for a while, at least until the adrenaline kicks in and he can bring Phil home.


End file.
